II.—RICHARD DE LA POLE, "WHITE ROSE."[4]

II.—RICHARD DE LA POLE, "WHITE ROSE."[4]

English visitors at Metz—there ought to be more, for there is not a little that is interesting to be seen in and around the old imperial city—are likely to have pointed out to them some venerable house or other, which, their guides will tell them, was nearly four hundred years ago the residence of a great English noble, a pretender to the crown, and the terror of Henry VIII.—the "Duke of Suffolk." Some guides may even style him "The King of England," since their distinguished townsman, Philippe de Vigneulles, gives him that title. In all probability the house shown will be the wrong one. For there is a great deal of loose and inaccurate archæology prevalent in these parts, and one old house is very apt to be confounded with another. I myself have had a leading French archæologist in Metz indicating to me an old Merovingian palace—highly interesting, to be sure—as the "Duc de Sciffort's" quarters. Once the building was plainly ancient, the trifling difference of eight hundred or a thousand years in the several dates made no odds to him. With the kind assistance, however, of the present archivist, Dr. Wolfram, my friend M. des Robert and the help of some old documents preserved in the local library—which in spite of repeated pilferings for the enrichment of Paris, still contains many valuable old manuscripts, I have been able pretty clearly to trace the movements in Metz of our distinguished countryman—who was indeed a claimant to the English crown, and over whose death in the battle of Pavia, in 1525, Henry VIII. exulted with such exuberance of gratitude to Providence, that he ordered a second public thanksgiving to be held "with great joy" on the 16th of March, the triumph proper for the victory of Pavia having—somewhat rashly, as it afterwards turned out—been celebrated on the 9th day of that month.

The story of this Englishman's exploits abroad affords some features of interest. It is a rather curious tale of adventure, love and war, strange escapades, intrigues, and ambition. And it may be worth telling, because I find that in English historical writings there is a gaping hiatus on the subject—which is not a little remarkable. For, considering what an ever-present weight Richard evidently was on the minds of the two last Henrys, to what all but incredible lengths those kings carried their unscrupulous persecution of him—how they offered bribes to kings to deliver him up, and to meaner men to assassinate him—how not a treaty was proposed to foreign potentates but contained a special clause forbidding the harbouring of this dangerous character—one might have supposed that our chroniclers of the time would have deemed it expedient to tell posterity something about him. Their silence is explained by a strange want of materials. So little turns out to have been known in this country about the great marpeace, that Mr. Burton, in his 'History of Scotland,' actually assigns to him the wrong christian name, calling him "Reginald." Mr Gairdner in his interesting preface to one of the volumes of 'Chronicles and Memorials' goes at some length into the history of Richard's brother Edmund. What became of Richard himself—except that he fell at Pavia—he confesses that he "cannot trace at all accurately." Napier in his 'Notices of Swyncombe and Ewelme' supplies fuller information than any other English writer. But he, too, is evidently at fault for materials. It is practically only foreign sources, very little studied in this country, to which we have to look for information on the subject of how "White Rose" employed the time of his exile, be it self-imposed or involuntary, which made up the main portion of his life.

The chief of such writers is Philippe de Vigneulles, a contemporary of Richard's, and a citizen of Metz, who has left rather curious and pretty full memoirs written in that strange-sounding, uncouth Lorrain French, which was at his time spoken at Metz. The original manuscript, formerly in the possession of Count Emmery, was some time ago purchased at a sale by M. Prost, the well-known Lorrain archæologist. From it M. des Robert, another well-known writer, specifically connected with the ancient city of Metz—which only patriotic considerations have led him to desert—has drawn the information which some years ago he incorporated in a little monograph. Even this monograph leaves some gaps. And the author falls into one or two odd mistakes—which are no doubt excusable in a foreigner. For instance, he confounds the "rebel and traitor" Richard de la Pole with one of the most faithful followers of the Tudor kings, Sir Richard Pole, of Lordington, in ascribing to his hero, first, the office of Chamberlain to Prince Arthur, and later on the fatherhood of Reginald Pole the cardinal. But his pamphlet is decidedly useful, as supplying clues, which I have been able to follow up successfully on the spot.

Richard de la Pole was the last member of a family which, within the space of about a century of strange vicissitudes, ran through all the stages of rapid rise, almost to the height of the throne, and no less sudden, humiliating descent, to attainder, execution, confiscation, and dishonour. I cannot stop here to tell their history at length. Genealogists have been careful to point out that the French prefix de la proves no Norman descent. There is no "de la Pole," nor any name resembling it, to be met with in the Battle Roll. The De la Poles' origin was, in fact, so humble, that their first distinguished member, Michael, the prosperous merchant—to whom his native town, Hull, raised a monument in 1871—afterwards Lord Chancellor of England and Knight of the Garter, is described in Camden as "basely born." His "base birth," it is true, has been disproved. But that only makes a difference of two or three generations. When Richard and his brothers came into the world, the family had had five generations of titled distinction and notoriety—partly of honour and partly of disgrace. Only one Suffolk of this creation—Richard's father—seems to have died at home and in his bed. And even his death was caused by "grief for the ruin of his family." The Lord Chancellor expired almost exactly a century before of "a broken heart" in exile. His son fell a victim to "dissentery" before Harfleur. The next Earl was honourably killed at Agincourt. His son, again, the "Duke of Suffolk" denounced in early ballads, lived to disgrace that dukedom which he had first obtained, and to die by lynch law under the form of a trial, for having had a hand in the murder of Humphrey, the "good" Duke of Gloucester, and in the surrender of Normandy and Aquitaine to France. This "bad" Duke's son rose once more to high distinction. King Edward IV. actually conferred upon him the hand of his sister Elizabeth; and Richard III., on the death of his own only son, appointed his eldest son John—created Earl of Lincoln—next heir to the throne. That appointment proved in after-time a rather questionable boon to the family. For it involved both John and his brothers in perils, and intrigues, and persecution. The Earl of Lincoln fell in the battle of Stoke, fighting for Simnel, the pretending Earl of Warwick, and by his treason and disgrace caused the death of his father. Of course his estates and titles were held to be forfeited. That forfeiture notwithstanding, the Earl of Lincoln's next brother was admitted to some part of the succession, both of estate and of title, by amicable arrangement with King Henry VII. These peerage cases were dealt with in those days in a very different manner from what they are now, as appears from the fact, that only some eight years previously, in Edward IV.'s reign, the De la Poles' rather distant cousin, the then Duke of Bedford—a Neville, not a Russell—had been deprived of his peerage by Act of Parliament on the score of poverty.

Edmund de la Pole bargained with Henry VII., and recovered part of his brother's possessions and also the humbler of his titles in the peerage, by sacrificing the higher. He was admitted to the peerage as "Earl of Suffolk." Notwithstanding his renunciation, he, later on, when in exile, again claimed the dukedom. Edmund had in his youth been reported by the University of Oxford in a letter addressed to his uncle, King Edward IV., "a penetrating, eloquent, and brilliant genius"—anything but which he proved himself to be. His letters read like the writing of a man of very poor education, even judged by the standard of those unlettered days. And at Court he played his cards so unskilfully, that he soon became, from a rather petted hanger-on, a declared "rebel and traitor," persecuted with all the unrelenting meanness and malice that the two first Tudor kings—the first, at any rate, not feeling very secure on his throne—were masters of. That almost necessarily involved his younger brother Richard in a like fate—which Richard did nothing to evade. Edmund, we read, had the misfortune to kill a "mean" person, whom he presumed to chastise for insulting him. For this he was brought before the King's Bench and adjudged guilty. The king readily granted a pardon. But the Earl took the indignity of his mere trial so much to heart, that he very unwisely fled die country. People said that he had taken refuge at the Court of his aunt Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, which was then notoriously the gathering-place of malcontent Yorkists. This turned out incorrect. But the rumour may have helped to prejudice Henry against him. Edmund returned home for Prince Arthur's wedding in 1501, and appears to have been at pains to make his loyalty know, and to have been outwardly well received. But almost immediately afterwards he ran away a second time. And as he forthwith proclaimed himself a pretender to the throne, and obtained from the Emperor Maximilian a promise of material help—the loan of 4000 of his troops, wherewith to make good his pretention—it is not surprising that Henry should have set all his ample apparatus of crafty persecution at work against a man become so dangerous a foe. But it is surprising to find him stooping so very low in his recourse to dirty expedients. The State Papers show that bribes were offered all round—to the Emperor, to the King of France, Louis XII., to Philip of Castile and Burgundy—as much as twelve thousand crowns in gold—for Edmund's surrender or despatch. At length, in 1506, Fortune put Philip into Henry's power—a storm driving him on our coast. And Henry meanly took advantage of that opportunity to extort from the Spaniard an undertaking to surrender Edmund—then detained at Namur—agreeing, in return, to Philip's stipulation, that the prisoner's life should be spared. That promise he kept to the letter. Edmund was detained in the Tower until Henry's death—and then executed on Tower Hill by Henry VIII., in obedience to a direction set down with incredible rancour in his father's will. Dugdale suggests that, Edmund being so popular as a pretender, Henry VIII. did not like to leave the kingdom for a war projected in France, with his rival remaining in England alive. Another report says, that he was beheaded on the ground of correspondence proved to have taken place between himself and his brother, then a general in the French army.

Richard had taken service under the King of France as early as 1492. Charles VIII. detecting in him even then that brilliant capacity which made him in after-life one of the foremost generals of his day, intrusted to him the command of 6000 lansquenets, at whose head he mastered the difficult but valuable art of maintaining discipline among a most unruly, but at the same time most serviceable host, and qualified himself for that peculiar kind of warfare in which he subsequently gathered splendid laurels. By this early favour Charles linked to his Court an officer who, as Gaillard says, became one of "cette pleiade de grands Capitaines qui illustrèrent les règnes de Louis XII. et François I., et portèrent si haut l'honneur de nos armes—Bayard, la Palisse, la Trémouille, duc de Gueldres, Robert de la Marck [better known as Fleurange, "Le Jeune Aventureux"], et la famille de Rohan." Of all these famous captains—and, moreover, of Francis of Angoulême himself—Richard was a comrade-in-arms and familiar friend. And nobody seemed to be able to manage the wild and "indociles" mercenaries, who were ready to place themselves at the service of any sovereign who would pay them, like himself. Dreaded foes—and to the people scarcely less dreaded allies—were those "bandes noires" of Northern Germany, who, like the modern Prussians, bore on their banner the colours of black and white. Before Pampeluna—of gloomy memory—they mutinied even against Bayard, "striking"—according to the most approved notions of nineteenth-century trades-unionism—at the most critical juncture for the concession of double pay. Bayard and Suffolk between them, however, soon reduced them to obedience. Brantôme relates that it was said of the lansquenets that after St. Peter had refused them entrance into heaven, their troubled souls could not even obtain admission into hell. The very devils were afraid of this wild company. With these rough warriors did Richard fight his battles, and fought them so well, that there was not one of the three French kings whom he served, who did not feel moved to reward his services with a substantial pension, in addition to his open thanks. Ever foremost in battle, Richard's company "receveyd," as John Stile reports to Henry VIII., "most hurte and los of men then any other of that party." And on that fateful day which cost Richard his life, and Francis I. "tout fors l'honneur," the king declared that, if all his troops had but done their duty like Richard's lansquenets, the victory would have been his. Francis was especially beholden to these rough soldiers, because, by winning for him the battle of Marignano, when his crown was still young and unsettled upon his head, they raised him to high prestige, and completely altered his position in Europe. "Ce gros garçon gâtera tout," Louis XII. had said—leaving 1800 livres of debts for the "gros garçon" to pay. The prediction proved wrong.

When Richard de la Pole took service under Charles VIII., his father was recently dead "of grief," and his family were under a cloud, owing to Lincoln's rising in 1487. The "affable" king was much pleased with his captain, and after the siege of Boulogne assigned to him a pension of 7000 écus. At the conclusion of the treaty of Etaples, Henry VII. began his shabby course of persecution against Richard, from which he and his son never desisted while Richard was alive, demanding from Charles the surrender of his foe. Charles, however, flatly refused the demand. King Charles's pension, it is sadly to be feared, lapsed with his life in 1498; for in 1505, and thereabouts, we find Richard in absolute destitution—left, indeed, in pawn by his brother Edmund for that brother's debts with the citizens of Aix-la-Chapelle. (Sir Henry Ellis, with a little too much knowledge of German geography, places Richard at "Aken on the Elbe." It is, however, perfectly clear that the place of his detention was Aachen—that is, what we generally call Aix-la-Chapelle, but for which both Edmund and Richard adopted various fancy spellings, as, indeed, they did for most of their words, from the simple article upward.)

As Richard's fate is so closely bound up with Edmund's, it may be convenient to review at one rapid glance the fortunes of that poor nobleman after his flight in 1501. He first repaired to Imst, in the Tyrol, to seek help from the Emperor Maximilian. The Emperor Maximilian gave him ample encouragement, drew up an agreement, kept his confidential agent as representative at his own Court, and sent him with letters of recommendation to Aix-la-Chapelle, where, hoping to obtain further succour, Edmund managed to outrun the constable, and was fain to leave his brother as pledge. In spring 1502 it was proposed that Edmund, to make good his claim, should land in England from Denmark. In that same year, however, Henry talked over the Emperor, and concluded a treaty with him, by which Maximilian bound himself not to allow any English rebels to reside in his dominions, "even though they be of the rank of dukes." That was, there can be no doubt, specially aimed at Edmund and Richard. Edmund now despaired of help in the quarter appealed to, and transferred his attentions to the Court of the Count Palatine. In 1504 he entered Guelders, with a view to proceeding to Frisia and obtaining pecuniary assistance—so he writes to his pawned brother at Aachen—from Duke George of Saxony. The Duke of Guelders, greedy to secure—as Archduke Philip, his cousin, writes to Henry—the reward which he is likely to receive from Henry, plays the traitor and enters into an intrigue with Philip of Burgundy—it is always the same Philip—who eventually "interns" Edmund at Namur.

Poor Richard was in sore straits all the time. "Here I ly," he writes to his brother in very curious English, "in gret peyne and pouerte for your Grace, and no manner of comffort I have of your Grace.... Sir, be my trothe ye dele ffery hardly with me." "Sir," he writes again another time, "I beseche your Grace, send me some what to help me with all." He reports that—while Edmund was at Namur—the indignant "bourgoys of Aix" have sent a deputation to Philip to see what redress they could obtain. And coming back empty-handed they had denounced Edmund to Richard as "le pluis false homme que oncques fuyt de sa parole," and threatened to expose him at all the courts of Europe. At the same time Richard is made uncomfortable by the fact that he knows that Henry has offered the burgesses of Aix bribes—as much as 5000 crowns in gold—if they will deliver him "three lieuwes out of the town of Aix"—"and he will pay them," he significantly adds.

From Namur, Edmund, with a mixture of rather too ingenuous prudence and folly, as a last shift, offers a reconciliation to Henry, but fixes his own terms exorbitantly high. This offer, as has been already related, sealed his doom. He died by the executioner in 1513.

His death left Richard the more or less recognised "White Rose" claimant to the throne of England. (What became of his two elder brothers, Humphrey and Edward—both of whom took orders, and one of whom was Archdeacon of Richmond—we are not told.) Somehow or other he had managed to get away from Aix in 1506. For in that year we find the Emperor reporting to Henry that he had seized the French "orators," who had proceeded to Hungary by way of Venice. He had looked out, as desired, for Richard, but had not been able to find him among the company. In April, 1507, however, Richard writes, dating his letter "Budae," to the Bishop of Liége—one of the De la Marcks with whom at Metz he was to become intimate—in Latin, which is very much better than his English, though that is not saying much.

King Henry having, in 1509, given proofs of his peculiar goodwill towards the De la Poles, by excepting them in distinct terms from a general pardon, we cannot be surprised to learn that Richard—"Blanche Rose" they called him in France—had grown busy scheming against his sovereign. Louis XII. was then at war with Henry, and it served Louis's purpose to turn to account the "instrument de trouble que le roi dans l'occassion pouvait faire agir en Angleterre—une étincelle qui pouvait y rallumer les anciennes incendies." In 1512 we have John Stile reporting to Henry, that "your sayd rebel was mayde a Capytan of the Almaynys that went you to Navar, where many of the Almaynys now of late be slayne." "The Almaynys" were Richard's lansquenets, who indeed suffered great "hurte and los" in that ill-starred campaign. Richard fought there side by side with Bayard, and half starved with him on bread made of millet; and though their defeat meant disaster to the King of Navarre, the army were not altogether sorry to be called back to Artois, invaded by the English. Richard's command of the "French fleet for a rising in England," recorded by Peter Martyr, was probably only of brief duration. For we find him again at the head of his 6000 lansquenets at Therouenne, besieged by the English, and taking part in the inglorious "battle of the Spurs"—so named because the French, taken by surprise while riding, not their war-horses, but their "hackneys," trusted more to their spurs than to their swords. That day of Guinegate helped to bring peace to England and France—and to send Richard to Metz. The Duc de Longueville, taken prisoner on that day, turned his captivity to account for negotiating a treaty of peace—one condition of which was that the Princess Mary, Henry VIII.'s sister, should be married to the all but dying Louis XII.—as the clerics of the Basoche said, "Une hacquenée pour le porter bientost et plus doucement en enfer ou en paradis." Another condition was, that Richard should be given up. To this Louis would not agree, but answered in almost the same terms which his cousin had used, "Qu'il aimait mieux perdre tout ce qu'il possédait que de le conserver en violant l'hospitalité." Some people say that this was mere bounce. But it had its effect.

A compromise was arranged, in pursuance of which Richard was banished to Metz. That was rather a cool proceeding on the part of the two monarchs, considering that Metz was then a city of the Empire, in no sort of dependence upon either Henry or Louis. The thirteen Jurats of Metz were accordingly a little taken aback when they received Louis's letter to "mes bons amis," begging that his protégé might be "bien reçu et bien advenu"—as well they might, in view of the treaty concluded between England and their master, the Emperor, in 1502, with special reference to this self-styled "duke." However, they got over the difficulty by granting Richard a laissezpasser for eight days, to be indefinitely renewed, while that should prove practicable. So De la Pole went to Metz, England and France got their peace for a time, and Mary—"bien polie, mignoinne, gente et belle" as she was—married Louis, "fort gouteux vies et caducque," as a brief prelude to her clandestine marriage with the new Duke of Suffolk, Brandon.

On the 2d of September, 1514, one Saturday, we read in Vigneulles, "Blanche Rose" entered Metz, escorted by sixty "chevaliers," several French "gentilhommes," and a guard of honour furnished by the Duke of Lorraine, René II. That was making his entry in good style; and such style, on the whole, he managed to maintain whilst in Metz. It is true that at times he was very short of money, and paid his servants, dressed "in grey and blue," their wages most irregularly; and that even his chaplain could wring his "wages" from him only "a crown at a time." But that was because, what with keeping open house, and entertaining the honoratiores of Metz, betting, gambling, and making love to other men's wives, "the Duke" spent his money faster than he got it. King Louis had allowed him a pension of 6000 écus per annum. King Francis made very much of him, and from time to time "augmented his stipend." The Messins, always inclined to hospitality, took delight in honouring their guest, whose chivalrous manners and easy amiability made him popular. And they never ceased to look upon him as "le vray héritier d'Angleterre qui devoit mieulx estre roy que celui qui l'estoit."

Metz was then in a semi-independent state, which, in the present day, it is interesting to study. Its nationality was German, its language was a curious sort of early French. Its sympathies were French, too. Its seigneurs served in the French army; and at the famous "sacres" of French kings, representatives of the leading families of Metz—the Serrières, the Gournays, the De Heus, the Baudoches, &c.—attended, and considered it an honour to be dubbed knights. To complete the mixture of nationalities, the city was surrounded by Lorraine, then an independent dukedom. The government of the city was in principle the same as that of other great German free towns—Strassburg, Bâle, Cologne, Mayence, &c. There was nothing at all similar in France. It was divided into six (originally only five) "paraiges." Its head was a maître échevin, at that time appointed afresh every year. It was administered by a council of thirteen Jurats, representing, for the most part, the patrician families. From the judgment of the Thirteen there was no appeal. The larger Council consisted of the Thirteen, with the addition of an indefinite number of "prudhommes" or "wardours"; and for purposes of taxation and similar business, the whole mass of citizens were called together. There were, moreover, standing committees of seven each, appointed to deal severally with matters of war, gates and walls, the collection of taxes, the treasury, and paving. There were also three mayors under the maître échevin and a number of "amans" or amanuenses, answering to modern notaries. The whole city was a thoroughly self-contained little republic.

Among these people Richard de la Pole had come to take up his abode. As a welcome, the Thirteen presented him with two demi-cuves of wine, one red the other "clairet," and, moreover, with twenty-five quarters of oats for his horses. The question of housing so distinguished a guest presented some difficulties. On the advice of Michel Chaverson, the maître échevin for the year, the Thirteen committed Richard to the care of Vigneulles, the writer of the Memoirs, then already a citizen of note and substance. For the first three nights he put Richard up at "la Court St Mairtin," which was presumably near the Church of St Martin still existing. The Duke of Lorraine's Guard were quartered in what was then the leading hotel, "à l'Ange," which has now disappeared. Nothing suitable offering for a longer residence, Vigneulles prevailed upon his fellow-citizen, Chevalier Claude Baudoche, one of the foremost men in the place, and "Seigneur of Moulins"—the prettily situated village or almost suburb which you pass on your way to the battle-fields of 1870—to lend him for an indefinite period his magnificent mansion called "Paisse Temps," situated on the bank of one arm of the Moselle. The site may still easily be traced. It adjoined the Abbey of St Vincent, of which the church still stands—a beautiful church inside, though insignificant without. Its architectural lines are perfect, and there is some fine stained glass from the famous works of Champigneulles, of Metz, which were in 1875 removed to Bar-le-Duc. The Baudoches were at that time a wealthy and highly influential family in Metz. To-day, such is the instability of things terrestrial, the city knows them no more. About fifty years ago, their last remaining representative was a small watchmaker plying his trade in an insignificant shop in the Rue Fournirue. Of the suitableness of the house secured there could be no question; for in it Pierre Baudoche, Claude's father, had entertained several crowned heads, including the Emperor Maximilian. Here Richard found a lordly home, which he maintained in a lordly style, receiving in turn all the leading personages of Metz and dispensing a princely hospitality.

On New Year's Day, 1515, precisely at midnight, Louis XII. died, not twelve weeks after his marriage with Mary, who—rather uncomfortable under the attentions paid her by Francis, French historians say—very soon left the Court, to marry the new Duke of Suffolk. The "gros garçon" could not keep quiet long. With an army including no less than 26,000 lansquenets he marched into Italy, to claim his succession to the Milanais, and won the battle of Marignano. In this campaign Richard appears to have found no employment, though his old corps, the lansquenets, covered themselves with glory. The treaty with England, forbidding his employment in France, was still too recent for him to be allowed to lend the aid of his sword. Truth to tell, Henry gained mighty little by Richard's ostensible inaction. Being at Metz, plotting and scheming, he made the king far more uncomfortable than he could possibly have done had he been fighting at Marignano. He was reported to be planning all sorts of enterprises. Evidently he was much feared at home. Wolsey complains that malcontents and men out of work threaten that they will join De la Pole and take part in the impending invasion. On Henry's side it is all treachery and scheming. Richard is to be waylaid, to be murdered, and so on. Lord Worcester writes that he "knows of a gentleman who will take that matter in hand." He is to be seized "when he goes into the field either to course the hares or to see his horses" (i.e., to take exercise). The Emperor, on the other hand, had grown so careless in the observance of his treaty with England, that the Messins had plucked up courage formally to present Richard with the freedom of their city. And a "paper of intelligence" to the English Court describes him as "in his glory."

In 1516 "Blanche Rose" could remain quiet no longer. He must see Francis, and ask for military employment. So on the 22d February, without telling any one a word, we find him mounting horse, taking with him only his cook and a page, and trotting off to Paris, covering a hundred miles in twenty-four hours. But there was no employment for him yet. He returned on the 3rd of April. On Christmas Eve he repeats his ride, again secretly, accompanied by the Duke of Guelders, who had come to Metz in disguise. He returned, as he had come, in strict privacy, on the 17th February. After his return Claude Baudoche found that he could no longer spare "Paisse Temps," and politely turned out his guest. But he placed another house at his disposal, which may still be seen, at the crossing of the Rue de l'Esplanade and the Rue des Prisons Militaires (I give the French names, having forgotten the German). In the old chronicles the house, previously occupied by Jean or Jehan de Vy, is described as "après le grant maison de coste de St Esprit." Just opposite it is the Church of St Martin, a rather interesting building, exhibiting a curious medley of architectural styles. A rather remarkable feature in the church is a row of curious sculptures. "Blanche Rose's" house, dwindled terribly in size, and shorn of its ancient splendour, though still exhibiting some small remnants of former grandeur, such as zigzag mouldings and Gothic labels, directly faces this church on one side, and on the other side a public building, which is, if I recollect right, the military prison, and in front of which a Prussian sentry paces solemnly up and down.

At this house it was that Richard conceived the curious idea of treating his fellow-burgesses to what must have infallibly endeared him to English neighbours—namely, the spectacle of a horse-race. Such a thing as that was, it appears, previously quite unknown in Metz. And accordingly it occasioned not a little stir. Richard and "aultres seigneurs," we read, were much given to exciting pastimes, including gambling and betting. And Richard, being the owner of a horse of which—like other owners of horses—he had an exceedingly high opinion, was rash enough one day to offer a bet against any one who might maintain that within ten "lues" round there was another horse running equally well. Nicolle Dex (whose name was pronounced Desh) readily took the bet, offering, to run his own horse against Richard's. All the particulars of the arrangements for the race are minutely recorded by Vigneulles. The two men were to ride their own horses. The course was to be from the Orme at Aubigny (a village five miles from Metz) to the gate of the Abbey of St. Clement (which abbey was destroyed in 1552, when the Duc de Guise held Metz against Charles V.). The bet was for eighty "escus d'or au solleil," which was to be paid beforehand to a stakeholder. The race came off on the appointed day, Saturday the 2nd of May—the day on which "l'awaine et le bacon" were, by regulation of the authorities, first sold. That would enable the competitors to get easily out of the gate of St. Thibault—which was conveniently near Richard's house, but which had to be opened on purpose. The Chevalier Dex, with an amount of cunning of which Vigneulles does not altogether approve, had for some days before subjected both himself and his horse to preparatory treatment—"dieu scet comment." "Comme il me fut dit et certifié," that treatment consisted in his drinking nothing but white wine—which is the more sour of the two, and therefore is supposed rather strongly to contract the human frame—and giving his horse no hay whatever. Moreover, he had his horse shod with very light steel shoes. And himself he made as light as possible, riding "tout en pourpoint, avec un petit bonnet en sa teste," without shoes and without a saddle, having merely a light saddle-cloth laid over the horse's back. "Blanche Rose," however, rode in a saddle, and booted and spurred as for ordinary exercise. When the signal was given, Vigneulles says, the horsemen started with such terrible impetuosity that the bystanders thought the earth was going to open under them. "Blanche Rose" kept the lead most part of the way. But when the two reached St. Laidre—a léproserie near Montigny (the name of which still survives in a hamlet situated between Montigny and Aubigny) famed for its asparagus and fruit—Dex's artifices began to tell. Richard's horse was found to puff and to pant, and could not keep pace with its rival. Nicolle outstripped him. And though Richard spurred his horse till "le cler sanc en sailloit de tout cousté," it availed him nothing. Nicolle, having husbanded his horse's powers, came in first at the post. Richard was terribly annoyed, but he "ne dédaignait de risquer un peu de honte contre beaucoup de plaisir," like a good many other people. Very naturally, however, he would have his revenge. So the next St. Clement's Day saw the two horses running against one another once more; but it seems that their masters did not this time act as their own jockeys. Ill luck would have it that "Blanche Rose's" jockey, one of his pages, was thrown whilst riding, by which mishap his master lost his bet a second time. After that he did not tempt fortune again on the turf.

A month after the first race, Richard made a second attempt to obtain a command under Francis. Accompanied by several "de nos jonnes seigneurs," he proceeded to Milan and other places in Italy. "Dieu les conduie," piously ejaculates Vigneulles. They arrived, as it turned out, a day after the fair. Peace had been concluded, and the seigneurs returned to Metz without having had occasion to draw their swords.

In this year, Henry, through one of his emissaries, tempted Richard with a proposal that he should endeavour to make his peace with the king, and write him a letter in that sense. The king, explained Alamire, the emissary in question, "had the character of being most clement." "So I have heard," replied Richard, scenting the mischief; "and how well I should stand with my present protector, the King of France, if King Henry were to show him my letter!"

In the following year Richard once more rode to Paris, seeking employment. This time he was rewarded with a secret mission, on which he was sent into Normandy. It was about this time that Giustiniani learnt from the legate, Campeggio, that Francis favoured "Blanche Rose" more than ever, and Henry and his ministers again began to feel acutely uncomfortable. They had heard, so the State Papers show, that Francis and Richard were plotting mischief: Francis was favouring the Duke of Albany and trying to stir up disturbances in Scotland. There was a scheme on foot, Sir Richard Jernegan reports, according to which the Duke of Albany was to sail from Brittany to Scotland, "there to make business against the king," while "Blanche Rose" was to invade England from Denmark, abetted by the king of that country, and accompanied by that king's uncle, the Duke of Ulske; and Monsieur de Bourbon and the Duke of Vendôme were at the same time to besiege Tournay, which, in the peace of 1514, England had managed to retain. We cannot be altogether surprised, knowing in what systematic manner the Henrys persecuted the De la Poles, to learn that a man was said to have been taken in Champagne, paid by Henry to kill Richard. Indeed the thought of getting rid of Richard by assassination appears to have been habitually uppermost in Henry's mind.

However, the threatened invasion did not take place yet. Francis had other work to turn his thoughts to. On the 12th of January, 1519, Emperor Maximilian of Germany died, and the question arose, who was to be the next Emperor. Charles, the youthful King of Spain, was a candidate, and Francis of France resolved to enter the lists against him. He considered himself to have a fair chance. He seems to have counted even on Henry's support; but Henry, it turned out, cherished ill-founded hopes of being himself elected, and fought in a half-hearted way for his own hand. Francis, however, spared no pains in his canvass. He bribed and coaxed and promised all round, and indeed only very narrowly missed the election. At the last moment the Elector of Saxony left him in the lurch, just as, nearly three centuries after, that Elector's successor failed Napoleon at Leipzig, going over to the other side. But for that defection Francis would of a surety have been elected Emperor. One of the promises which Francis had rashly made, was this: "Si je suis élu, trois ans après l'élection, je jure que je serai à Constantinople ou je serai mort." At the very last stage of the proceedings he despatched Richard de la Pole as a confidential envoy to Prague, where the Electoral College was sitting, to further his candidature. In the National Library at Paris a manuscript letter is still preserved containing the king's instructions. However, Richard arrived too late.

In the same year—1519—"Blanche Rose" found himself compelled to change his quarters a second time. Claude Baudoche "vouloit r'avoir ses maisons." The dean and chapter of Metz signalised their goodwill towards the guest of their city by making over to him for life, at a nominal rent of 10 sols messins per annum, their old mansion, called "la Haulte Pierre," occupying the commanding site on which now stands the Palais de Justice. In all probability, the handsome esplanade now leading up to that building did not at that time exist, nor yet perhaps the splendid terrace facing the Moselle and St. Quentin. But at all times the situation must have been unique. The reason why the house was let so cheap was, that it was then in an utterly dilapidated condition, and the tenant undertook thoroughly to repair it. He did better, as the chapter remembered to his credit after his death. At a heavy cost—he spent 2000 gold florins upon it in one year—he rebuilt it from top to bottom in magnificent style. That mansion does not now survive. It was pulled down in 1776 to make room for the present structure, more useful though less showy, in which are housed the provincial law-courts.

While still in "la Rue de la Grande Maison"—the Rue de l'Esplanade—Richard de la Pole got entangled in a little love intrigue, which caused a tremendous commotion in the town, and led him into serious trouble. Metz was rather famed in those days for its goldsmiths. The Rue Fournirue—still interesting—was full of them. One of these artisans, named Nicolas Sébille, had a young wife, whom Vigneulles describes as "une des belles jonnes femmes, qui fut point en la cité de Metz, haulte, droite et élancée et blanche comme la neige." To this beautiful young woman's heart Richard successfully laid siege. She came to see him at his house, which was conveniently near. The conquest does not appear to have cost him much persuasion. Evidently Madame Sébille was as hotly smitten with him as he was with her. To be able to carry on his little amour with the greater freedom, he gave the unsuspecting husband an order for some very costly and elaborate goldsmith's work, necessitating one or two journeys to Paris, the expense of which Richard was quite content to pay. While the husband was away "celle belle Sébille" went "aulcunes fois bancqueter et faire la bonne chière en l'ostel du dit duc," so much so that the city began to talk. The duke, for the safety of his lady-love, employed a certain hosier named Mangenat to escort her and watch the streets. Mangenat was in one sense admirably fitted for this office—for he was a stalwart bully, who soon became the terror of all the neighbourhood. Like the German and French police in these days, he suspected a spy or an enemy in every person he met, and struck and mauled a good many harmless creatures. That caused additional scandal; and as there was no police to maintain peace and order, the neighbours, after complaining a good deal, took the law into their own hand, and one fine night, early in September, turned out in force to lynch Mangenat. Richard had by that time removed to "Haulte Pierre," and there was therefore a considerable distance to cover between his house and the Rue Fournirue. The neighbours were firmly resolved to turn Mangenat into a "corps sans âme." Mangenat, however, managed to elude them. The neighbours then laid their plaint before the Thirteen. Madame Sébille, fearing her husband's wrath, resolutely packed up her clothes and jewels and other belongings, and with them also her husband's money, and transferred herself with these possessions to the "Haulte Pierre." This made matters still worse, especially when Nicolas returned home and set a-clamouring for his money and his wife. Watching for "Blanche Rose," he caught him one day in the Rue Fournirue, and very nearly did for him. On Sunday, the 16th of September, he demonstratively took up his position, fully armed with sword and hallebarde, at the cathedral door, intending to knock Richard's life out of him in the sacred place. Richard was warned, and wisely kept out of the way. However, as Nicolas tried to raise a popular tumult, on the ground that an outraged plebeian could obtain no legal redress from the patrician court—"l'aristocratie," says M. des Robert, "fut tout puissante"—the Thirteen could ignore the case no longer. With some difficulty they persuaded "the duke" to let Madame Sébille go. He agreed to this only on the distinct understanding that Nicolas "ne lui [that is, his wife] ne reprochait en rien sa conduite, ni ne la baittroit, ni ne lui diroit parole qui l'en puist desplaire, si non que leur débast ou huttin vint pour aultre chose." This undertaking having been given—by the Thirteen—Madame Sébille was brought before the court under protection of a strong armed escort, consisting of notable chevaliers. Of course Nicolas would in no wise agree to the terms proposed. And so the Thirteen—it is interesting to learn how these cases were dealt with in those early days—kept his wife in their own charge, lodging her very fitly in the council-room of the "Seven of War," and supplying her with good food and drink at the expense of the town. Thereupon Nicolas, as he could not obtain redress as a citizen of Metz, migrated to Thionville, became a burgess of that town and then—as he was entitled to do in those days—levied war in person on the man who had wronged him. He bribed "Des Allemans" to waylay and kidnap or kill Richard, just as the two English Henrys had done. Richard, being a little bit frightened, sought refuge in the chateau of Ennery, belonging to Signor Nicolle de Heu. (This fact was promptly reported to Henry.) Here, Vigneulles says, Richard meant to "passer mélancolie et passer son dueil." However, Sébille's "Allemans" found him out, and one day very nearly captured him. So "Blanche Rose" thought it prudent to seek safer quarters. He found them at Toul. Nicolas does not appear to have followed him so far, nor to have troubled himself much further about his faithless wife. This put the Thirteen in a fix. They had the lady on their hands, and were sorely puzzled what to do with her. Nicolas would not have her on any account, and could not at Thionville be made to take her; and restore her to Richard they in propriety could not. After much deliberation, having detained her a full fortnight at public expense, they cut the knot to their own satisfaction by handing Madame Sébille over to her brother, one Gaudin, a butcher, who was to take care of her. Gaudin gave her in charge to an old woman selling wax candles. Madame Sébille was under strict injunction not to leave the city. But who could expect her to observe that command? Anyhow, one fire morning, pretending that she had a pilgrimage to perform to "St. Trottin," she made her way outside the city gates disguised as a vendangeresse, with a basket by her side and a sickle in her hand. Outside the walls she was met by friends who at once put her into a page's clothes, in which, of course, she marched as straight as she could to Toul, and joined "Blanche Rose," to her swain's delight as well as her own. Richard had once more "ne dédaigné de risquer un peu de honte contre beaucoup de plaisir." He and his lady-love were now outside the jurisdiction of the Thirteen, and might therefore consider themselves safe. But upon the abettors of the lady's flight the magistrates visited their share in the offence with all the greater rigour. Notwithstanding Richard's earnest interposition, they heavily fined and banished them. Thus ends the story of Richard's amour; for what became of Madame Sébille afterwards, neither history nor tradition records. She was not allowed to enjoy the company of her knight long; for stirring events were in train, which required his presence elsewhere.

In 1521 a powerful alliance of European States was formed against Francis I., designed to humble the victor of Marignano. It comprised the Emperor, the Pope, the King of England, Florence, Venice, and Genoa. In 1522 England invaded Picardy and Flanders. That put an end to the treaty engagements of 1514, and made Richard's services allowable as well as needful to the French king. Indeed "Blanche Rose" did not wait to be summoned. The State papers and other official publications of that period relate how busy he was plotting against England and Scotland. King Francis took a delight in parading his partiality for the Duke of Albany and the "Duke of Suffolk." He rode in public with one of them on one side and one on the other. He slapped Richard on the back and said in the hearing of the Court: "My Lord of Suffolk, I will set you in England with 40,000 men within few days." He proposed a marriage for Richard with the daughter of the Duke of Holstein, and planned sundry invasions of England which, happily, did not come off. But Richard joined the French army under Guise and Vendôme, and fought against his countrymen in Picardy. There he raised a corps of 2,000 men on his own authority, and led this welcome reinforcement to Francis at St. Jean de Moustiers. In 1524 he accompanied Albany into Scotland, without, however, doing much hurt. But he greatly frightened Henry's officers. We find Fitzwilliam writing to Wolsey, urging him, in face of "his wretched traitor" being in the field, to "hasten over some men to give courage to the Flemings."

Then came the campaign which led to the catastrophe of Pavia. Richard joined the French army at Marseilles, and was, in company with Francis of Lorraine, placed at the head of his old corps the German lansquenets, who were delighted to fight under so practised and trusted a leader. They were 6,000 at the beginning of the campaign, pitted against a larger number of their own brethren under Frundsberg, in the Emperor's service. On St. Matthias Day, in 1525, the battle of Pavia was fought, which lost Francis his liberty. Francis, as usual, showed no want of dash, but a lamentable lack of prudence. Mistaking the enemy's retreat, under the fire of his guns, for a settled defeat, he sent his infantry after them, placing the bulk of his army between the foe and his own artillery. The allies were not slow to turn this false move to account. Charging back upon their foes, they overwhelmed them with superior numbers. That lost the French the day. Richard's lansquenets did their best to retrieve the error. Having knelt down, as their manner was, and thrown dust behind them, they rushed, singing their familiar war-songs, into the fray with an impetus which promised to break the hostile ranks. "Had but the Switzers fought like the lansquenets," Francis said after the battle, "the day would have been ours." But the odds were too many against them. They were met by their own fellow-lansquenets—each side being furious with the other. The German men were wroth at seeing their comrades on the other side, fighting against their own country—the French at seeing their brother-soldiers desert so faithful an employer as Francis. So no quarter was given on either side. And the French lansquenets—they had lost one-fourth of their number before the charge began—being wedged in between a superior force of Germans closing in on either side, were simply crushed as between two millstones. The list of killed was long—and brilliant. Among the slain were the two captains of the lansquenets, Francis of Lorraine and Richard de la Pole. The latter had—as a painting preserved in the Ashmolean Museum indicates—died protecting Francis with his sword. He was found buried under "un monceau" of dead enemies against whom he had fought. There was loud rejoicing in the camp of the allies. It was given out that "three kings" had been taken or killed—Francis, the unfortunate King of Navarre, and, "to make up the trinity of kings," says a despatch addressed to Wolsey, "La Rose Blanche, whom they call the King of Scots." Appended to the curious despatch which Frundsberg forwarded to the Emperor, giving a report of the battle—the oldest record extant—is a drawing, showing three crowned knights, fancy portraits of the "kings."

One is prepared to find Henry VIII. ordering a triumph, and congratulating himself upon his happy riddance from a rival who had been more of a thorn in his side than the present generation is probably aware. But it does seem small to read, in the State Papers, of one of Henry's tools begging from Wolsey the king's authority for seizing "some goods of no great amount" that Richard had left at Metz.

The French were far more chivalrous in their treatment of the dead warrior. We read in Camden that "for his singular valour" his very enemy, the Duke of Bourbon, "honoured his remains with splendid obsequies, and attended in person as one of the chief mourners." Francis expressed his attachment to the fallen, and his indebtedness to him for brilliant services. "La France," says Gaillard, "perdit en lui un allié utile, qui la servit efficacement et sans rien exiger d'elle." Considering that he was an English subject, that may sound questionable praise. But though he may have shown too great willingness to avail himself of the excuse, it should be borne in mind that it was England's kings who first drove him into treason.

The chapter of Metz, grateful for Richard's liberality, passed the following "resolution"—as we should say—founding a mass for the repose of their benefactor's soul: "Aprilis anno Domini 1525 in conflictu apud Paviensem civitatem quo tunc Franciscus Gallorum rex per exercitum Romanorum imperatoris captus et Hispaniam captivus ductus extituit, habito, obiit quondam illuster Richardus dux de Suffolk qui domum nostram dictam à la Haute Pierre sibi ante per nos ad vitam locatam obtinens valde somptuose restauravit, unde statuimus nunc anniversarium quotannum Ecclesiâ nostrâ pro salute animæ suæ perpetuo celebrari."

That mass ought, of course, to be read still. However, deans and chapters have as little respect for "pious founders"—though these be their own predecessors—as British Parliaments in democratic days. Consequently, the ecclesiastical function has long since been discontinued.

Apart from Richard's death, Henry did not find himself much of a gainer by the victory of Pavia. He had contributed nothing directly to the battle, and Charles V. accordingly would concede him none of the spoils. On the contrary, grasping monarch that he was, under cover of a marriage-portion to be given to Henry's daughter, he asked for a subsidy of 600,000 ducats. We need not be surprised to find Henry shortly after concluding a treaty with France, which secured him two millions of crowns.

One more notice we have of Richard de la Pole, the last of his race. Describing Pavia, as he found it in 1594, Fynes Moryson says: "Neere that (the castle) is the Church of St. Austine; there I did reade this inscription, written in Latin upon another sepulchre:—The French King Francis I. being taken by Cæsar's army neere Pavia, the 24th of February, in the yeere 1525, among other lords, these were slaine: Francis Duke of Lorayne, Richard de la Pole, Englishman and Duke of Suffolk, banished by his tyrant King Henry VIII. At last Charles Parker of Morley, kinseman of the said Richard, banished out of England for the Catholike faith by Queene Elizabeth, and made Bishop here by the bounty of Philip, King of Spain, did out of his small means erect this monument to him."

This is the last memorial of a life which created not a little stir in its day, and might under more favourable circumstances have been made signally serviceable to Richard's own country. Even that last memorial has probably now disappeared. But still "White Rose" may fairly claim a place at any rate in the lighter records of English history.